


In the Belly of Leviathan

by Pythia (Mythichistorian)



Category: Battlestar Galactica (1978)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 07:38:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7565719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythichistorian/pseuds/Pythia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on a routine recruiting mission, Apollo, Starbuck and Colonel Tigh discover that superstitious rumours can conceal dangerous truths - and that even the most unassuming of warriors can turn out to be a hero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (First published ‘Saga of a Star World 4’, The Thirteenth Tribe, June 1986)

"Starbuck." Apollo shook his friend by the shoulder. "Wake up and get dressed. We’re going to be late."

"Uh?" The sleeping warrior blinked open a wary eye. "Late for what? We’re on furlon."

"Not since a centar ago. We’ve been co-opted. The Colonel has to go over to the LEVIATHAN on a recruiting drive, and Father thought ..."

"Don’t tell me," Starbuck groaned, opening the other eye and focusing on his companion’s face. "Why did WE have to be the heroes of the fleet? I was looking forward to this secton - I wasn’t going to do a thing!"

"Sure," Apollo laughed, getting out of the way as the Lieutenant swung his legs over the side of the bunk. "That’s why you booked us two seats on the shuttle to the RISING STAR, is it? So we could do nothing? Somehow I think my pay will survive a recruiting drive on the LEVITHAN a lot better than it would your secton of idleness."

"Felgercarb," Starbuck swore without heat, looking for his boots. Apollo grinned and handed them to him.

"Come on," he said. "We don’t want to keep the Colonel waiting."

* * *

Colonel Tigh was waiting. He stood at the open shuttle hatch, his hands clasped behind his back, and watched as the two warriors hurried across the deck to join him.

"Glad to see you could make it," he remarked frostily as they arrived. "I hope this trip isn’t too much trouble for you?"

"No, sir," Apollo and Starbuck chorused, exchanging a quick glance. It was easy to see that Tigh had no more enthusiasm for the journey than they had - and his manner did not bode well.

"Good," the Colonel acknowledged shortly. "Let’s go, shall we?"

Inside the shuttle, Starbuck winked at an anxious Corporal Komma as the Colonel took the seat beside him. "I see you got the short straw too," the Lieutenant joked flippantly, climbing into the shuttle’s co-pilot seat. Komma cast a hasty glance in the Colonel’s direction and risked a brief, "Uh-huh," before subsiding under Tigh’s disapproving frown.

"Well," Starbuck went on, ignoring the Colonel’s icy stare, "if you got to go - then enjoy! That’s what I always say." And he grinned at Apollo, strapping in beside him. The dark-haired warrior grinned back.

"Are we ready?" Tigh requested coldly.

Still grinning, Apollo thumbed the communicator switch with practised ease. "Shuttle to Bridge," he announced. "Request permission to launch."

"Affirmative," Rigel’s voice responded warmly. "Please state your intended destination and estimated time of arrival."

"We have rendezvous with the freighter LEVIATHAN," Apollo returned. "Estimated flight time forty centons."

"Roger, shuttle. We will inform LEVIATHAN of your departure. You may launch when ready."

* * *

The freighter LEVIATHAN was just what its named implied: a huge cargo vessel, nearly as large as the GALACTICA, its long framework strung with cargo pods, once used to carry bulk goods between the Colonies and now mostly packed with people in hastily constructed cabinways. About half of Leviathan’s bulk had been converted into a spaceborne city. The rest was piled with goods and materials collected for storage until required. Generally the ship’s population was concerned with the handling of those goods - converting raw materials into fibres and other things for the fabrication ships, processing rock ores into useable form, acting as a general warehouse for the Fleet and, most vital of all, handling the chemicals.

The LEVITHAN was the only ship in the Fleet equipped to store and handle large quantities of volatile substances. Not tylium, which was kept separately in specialised fuel tankers, but the other, vital compounds which were in constant use and demand - raw solium, highly poisonous; metallic acids; inflammable phosphorus; sodium; the volatile hydrocarbons. Other chemicals, too, held in smaller quantities but no less dangerous. Explosives and poisons, stored and handled with care.

The ship had been designed with such a dangerous cargo in mind. Its structure - a long skeletal framework that supported hundreds of individual standardised cargo pods - was constructed in such a way that potential disasters could be instantly isolated and, if necessary, individual pods could be jettisoned from the ship at a micron’s notice. As far as anyone knew, such drastic action had never been taken, but the design had proved itself both convenient and practical. Cargo containers lifted from a planet’s surface could be attached and detached as required, and many of the huge pods were capable of limited independent flight, the better to facilitate their transfer from freighter to cargo tug and back. It had proved even more valuable during the evacuation following the destruction of the Colonies, and a large part of the fleet’s population owed their lives to the vast carrying capacity of the LEVIATHAN.

* * *

Apollo maneuvered the shuttle into the cavernous maw that was the LEVIATHAN’s landing bay with the kind of nonchalant skill that made him one of the best pilots in the fleet. A welcoming committee was waiting for them in the form of the ship’s First Officer and three crewmen trying their best to look as though they greeted the second-in-command of the GALACTICA and the two heroes of the fleet every day. They failed dismally. Tigh took the welcoming speech with an impassive expression, though Starbuck had to stifle a smirk at the bit about ‘the brave young men who sacrifice so much to defend our humble lives’ and ‘the few who would prove worthy enough to join their exalted ranks’. Basically the message came over loud and clear: the Captain of the LEVIATHAN didn’t want any of HIS crew leaving him for the GALACTICA, but the passengers were fair game. That suited the aim of the mission just right - they weren’t after trained personnel, woefully lacking in the fleet as it was, but raw recruits, willing to learn.

Tigh answered the speech with a brief one of his own. "Thank you," he said. "Now can you direct us to the passengers’ lounge?"

As speeches go, it was short, and the three warriors grinned at each other behind the Colonel’s back. But it was to the point, and the First Officer, a man named Kerrim, politely led the way down a nearby corridor.

The interior of the ship was well signposted, a consideration to refugee passengers who probably rarely left their individual pods, and who wouldn’t know their way around a spaceship even if they did decide to explore. As the party made its way down the main access gallery of the ship - an interminable passageway that Kerrim took great delight in describing as the LEVIATHAN’s artery - they passed a sealed doorway with a crude Gemon Spirit Cross scrawled on it.

Tight halted abruptly in front of the unexpected sight. "What in Hades is this nonsense about?" he demanded.

Kerrim looked at the hasty scrawl of paint and then away, embarrassed. "Nothing," he dismissed hurriedly. "When we helped in the evacuation the Captain sealed the accessways to Cargo Level 5 because we still had some merchandise aboard and we were too busy to do anything with it. We just - haven’t got round to opening it yet."

"What?" Tigh was indignantly surprised. "Are you saying that this ship has an entire cargo level not in use? Six pods? What’s down there?";

Kerrim hesitated, with a nervous smile. "We don’t know."

Apollo had moved across to examine the seals on the doorway. Now he turned in some surprise. "Surely you carried out an inventory?" he enquired in some confusion. "Everything was checked and catalogued before we even got to Carillon."

"Yeah," Starbuck affirmed. "We were practically counting rivet heads."

"We WERE counting rivet heads," Komma murmured behind him. Starbuck had to grin at the man’s tone. The Corporal made it sound as though he’d had to count every nut and bolt aboard the GALACTICA. Maybe he had, at that.

Well," Kerrim was saying, "we were going to look down there, but ..."

"But?" Tigh echoed icily.

"But - no-one will go down there. Some of the passengers - they put that mark on the door after ..."

"After what?" The Colonel’s patience was wearing thin. He had enough to put up with, with Adama sending him on this recruiting mission, and he didn’t hold with the superstitions of ignorant civilians at the best of times. This was not the best of times.

"We sent a man in to check the pod connectors," Kerrim explained hesitantly, his acceptance of the situation crumbling under the Colonel’s frown. "He came out saying that he’d heard - ghosts, hammering inside one of the pods, trying to get out."

Apollo and Starbuck exchanged a smile of scepticism, but Komma took a casual step away from the door. He didn’t believe in that sort of thing, of course, but he knew what the Spirit Cross was for - to guard against evil spirits - and he wasn’t a man to take too many chances ...

"Sure he did," Starbuck joked. "A pod full of ambrosa, probably. I’ve never met any other kind of spirits."

Apollo laughed, then swallowed it as Tigh shot him an angry glance.

"You can laugh," Kerrim retorted defensively. "Captain Pineus didn’t believe him either. He sent him down there a second time. Three centars later he sent a search party. They found our missing man, all right. He was dead. Lying in front of the junction hatch by the first pod, his face contorted as though he’d looked into Hades. There wasn’t a mark on him. And they heard the hammering - inside the pod. The Captain resealed the accessway. We couldn’t get anyone to go down there - not even for routine maintenance checks. And some of the passengers put that mark on the door."

"Superstitious felgercarb," Tigh stated bluntly. "There’s nothing down there but goods this fleet could need. We’ll take a look ourselves. Captain ..."

"Yes, Colonel." Apollo snapped smartly to attention. This sounded better than a mind-numbing recruiting drive.

"Remind me on our way back from the passengers’ lounges. We’ll check each of the pods down there, and Komma can pass a report on their contents into computer when we get back to the GALACTICA. There will be an explanation," Tigh added pointedly, looking hard at Kerrim. "And we will find it."

"Yes, sir," the three warriors chorused. The First Officer of the LEVIATHAN shook his head with slow resignation. They hadn’t seen that man’s face - he had. And he wouldn’t go into that cargo level if his life depended on it.

* * *

Starbuck wasn’t sure what the worst thing he had to do on a recruiting drive was, but he was glad he didn’t have Komma’s job. After all, Apollo worked wonders with the LEVIATHAN’s children, persuading them all to be warriors when they grew up, and it wasn’t too hard smiling at all the young ladies (some of them pretty) and impressing them with his bravery, but all Corporal Komma did was record the details of prospective cadets with numbing exactness. After a while they all began to sound exactly the same, and the portly computertech had a very bored expression on his face.

Tigh’s speech had been very entertaining, an interesting variation on the ‘Our Fleet Needs YOU!’ theme that Omega pumped out on the IFB every secton. He’d concentrated on how every member of the fleet could make some contribution, however small, and how even the smallest and weakest among them could aspire to the heights of achievement. Had they not, after all, survived the destruction of the human race? And were they not, therefore, ALL heroes?

It went down very well on the LEVIATHAN, and by the end of the session Tigh had regained much of his good humour. The grip had turned out to be reasonably successful - seventy possibles, twenty-five definites - and the people had received them warmly, a marked contrast to the last trip he had made, where no-one had wanted to listen and someone had even spat on the recording clerk. That might have had something to do with the fact that the last time he had gone recruiting had been in the middle of that business with Iblis, but even so the atmosphere on the LEVIATHAN was a welcome change.

On the way back to the shuttle, no longer under escort but free to wander as they wanted, they once again found themselves outside the sealed doorway to Cargo Level 5.

"Colonel," Apollo called, as he recognised the scrawl of paint on the metal hatch, "you asked me to remind you ..."

"Ah, yes." Tigh looked up at the massive cargo door. "What do you think, gentlemen?"

Starbuck sauntered over to pound a fist on the painted metal. A loud note rang from the steel and reverberated along the corridor. "If that doesn’t wake the ghosts up, nothing will," he remarked. I say we take a look, Colonel. Just to show these civilians how brave we really are."

"Volunteering, Starbuck?" Tigh was amused. "That doesn’t seem like you. What do you think, Apollo?"

Apollo grinned. "I think he thinks there’s ambrosa down there. But I also think he’s right. You said we’d find an explanation, and we won’t make much of an impression if we decide not to now."

Tigh nodded thoughtfully, following the curve of the drawing with a relaxed eye. "Komma?" he requested absently, and the Corporal jumped, not expecting to be included in the Colonel’s discussion.

"Well," he hazarded, "he did say a man had died down there ..."

"Scared, Corporal?" Starbuck teased. "Don’t tell me you believe in ghosts?"

"Of course not," Komma retorted quickly. "That is, I ..."

"He’s quite right, Starbuck," Tigh interrupted quietly. "A man has died, and we will proceed with caution as a result. No doubt there is a perfectly logical explanation, but until we find it we cannot take anything for granted. Open the hatch, will you, Apollo?"

* * *

The LEVIATHAN, like so many ships in its class, was a maze of passages and walkways, their arrangement determined more by practicality and cost than the aesthetic demands of the human mind. It was not so surprising, then, to find that the tunnel that confronted them appeared to twist mind-jarringly sideways, so that a few metrons from the doorway the floor began to tilt disconcertingly, eventually becoming a wall.

It was not an optical illusion. Rather it was the result of careful engineering, changing the direction of the ship’s internal gravity to better utilise the space available. Further to the rear of the ship, in the wider sections where the pods were currently occupied by passengers, that definite twist was less perceptible. But here the effect was highly disorientating. The most peculiar part of it was that, although you knew the passage was slowly being tilted until it ran at right-angles to its previous orientation, the change in gravity was so subtle that it seemed as though you remained consistently upright. Only the tunnel rotated ahead and behind you in a disconcerting fashion.

Apollo strode down the passageway with confident steps, turning slowly onto his side as he went. Komma could not help the low groan the sight inspired, and Starbuck laughed. "Hey, buddy," he called, "I bet you couldn’t do that in a launch tube!"

Tigh coughed discreetly, reminding the warrior that he was still there. "If you are ready, Lieutenant?" he murmured. "We are not here for the view."

"Ah, no sir." Starbuck grimaced and followed Apollo into the passageway. He too rotated through ninety degrees, reaching his companion’s side with some slight surprise at how easy it had been.

"Are you all right, Corporal?" Tigh enquired at Komma’s expression. As senior officer he had to remain dispassionate, of course, but secretly he found the man’s reaction quite amusing. One had to remember, after all, that Komma was not a pilot and thus was unused to the rapid changes of direction and potentially disorientating effect of spacial combat. What might be merely unusual to the two warriors further down the tunnel was probably a totally new experience for the man.

"I - I’m fine, sir." Komma might have been a little scared, what with the weird tunnel and the tales of ghosts, but he wasn’t about to admit to it. He was a warrior, after all. "I - was just wondering - why we don’t have this kind of construction on the GALACTICA."

"Because," Tigh told him conversationally, taking his arm and leading him down the accessway, "this kind of technology didn’t exist when the GALATICA was built. Besides - a Battlestar is designed as a floating fortress. It has entirely different priorities to a cargo vessel."

The other end of the passage emerged into a circular corridor lit mainly by dim emergency lighting. A large sign proclaimed it to be Cargo Level 5 and indicated certain emergency procedures that were to be followed - in the event, presumably, of an emergency. The air was stale and contained unpleasant traces of an unidentifiable taint. Nothing immediate, but every now and then the barest hint of something not quite comfortable.

Ugh," Starbuck complained without thinking. "It smells like something died down here."

"Something did," Tigh reminded him tartly. "I suppose this passage runs the full circumference of the ship."

"There’s a map," Apollo called, examining a second sign with interest. The four of them crowded round it, trying to make sense of the colour coding.

The diagram showed a circle, the passage they had entered by clearly indicated on its inner circumference. From the outer rim, other passages ran directly at right angles, short accessways leading apparently to nowhere.

"Where’s the cargo?" Starbuck enquired, nonplussed.

"The other side of the airlocks," Komma replied, sounding surprised at anyone asking the question. "It’s just like the passenger levels - those spoke corridors lead to the supporting arms for the cargo pods. There’s an airlock at either end of every standard freight lifter - they just link in to the containing arms when they dock. We’ve been walking through them all morning," he added with an innocent grin. "In one end, out the other. It must be the same down here."

Tigh smiled to himself at Starbuck’s chagrined expression. The layout was in fact not that obvious, but Komma was more observant than a great many people gave him credit for.

"This passage here ..." Apollo indicated a point on the map. "It’s marked as junction one - that must be where they found the dead man."

"That seems likely," the Colonel agreed, studying the layout carefully. "I suggest ..."

He broke off abruptly. Somewhere close by there had sounded a muffled thump, almost exactly like the sort of sound that a man would make hammering cautiously. For a moment there was silence. Then it came again - once, twice, an eerie sound in the empty, dimly-lit corridor. Unconsciously, Starbuck and Apollo had reached for their lasers, and when nothing else happened they straightened with embarrassed relief.

"It certainly sounds," Tigh admitted cautiously, "as though someone is trying to attract attention."

"This place is enough to give anyone the shivers," Komma muttered, peering down the curve of the corridor. "Aren’t there any more lights?"

"Now you’re scared of the dark," Starbuck accused absently, annoyed with himself for reacting as he had. There was no reason to be jumpy. Was there?

"Starbuck!" Apollo warned. He didn’t like this situation any more than Komma did. And something was making those noises.

"Warriors," Tigh reminded them all tightly, "Do not jump at shadows. Or strange noises, for that matter."

"Permission to jump at shadows with Cylons in them, Colonel?" Starbuck requested, trying to settle himself with a joke.

"Granted," his senior officer allowed, throwing the Lieutenant a reproachful glance. "Let’s look at this junction hatch, shall we?"

* * *

As they made their way along the curve of the corridor, the mysterious hammering started once again. It was distant and muffled, an irregular intrusion on the silence. Komma cast a nervous glance behind him as the accessway disappeared from sight, while both Starbuck and Apollo kept a careful hand on the butts of their lasers, just in case. Tigh strode ahead, seemingly unperturbed by his surroundings, and turned into the first passage with barely a glance at the notice beside it. Then he backed out again, coughing, and looking a little green.

"What is it, Colonel?" Apollo joined him, concerned.

Tigh waved down the passage, still retching for breath. "Air," he gasped. "Tainted air. No wonder a man died down here! The passage is full of fumes."

Starbuck leaned cautiously into the turning and quickly drew his head out again. "Smells like a charnel-house," he remarked, wincing at the unpleasant taint that his next breath brought him.

"Of a chemical waste dump," Apollo suggested, looking around for the emergency ventilation panel. Komma pointed to it wordlessly, one hand over his mouth and nose.

A few microns, and Apollo had triggered the fast recycling system that all the chemical carriers were required to have by Colonial law. A moment’s discomfort as the contents of the corridor were unceremoniously dumped into space, and they were breathing bottled air that was musty from long storage but was far better than the fumes.

"The maintenance people should have done that," Tigh remarked, breathing deeply.

"Maybe," Starbuck suggested, "it wasn’t as bad as that before."

"Could be." Apollo was looking at the emergency panel. "Colonel - what if the man who died was trying to reach this panel? He could have gone into the corridor, noticed the fumes, and collapsed before he reached the emergency system. The search party would have found him out here, and not realised that the air was tainted.

"It makes sense, Apollo." Tigh stared thoughtfully into the passage. "But where are those fumes coming from? And what is making that noise?"

Even as he spoke it sounded again, nearer now, as though it came from the end of the dark passageway.

Starbuck shrugged. "Let’s take a look," he suggested, and strode into the darkness.

"Starbuck ..." Apollo called, alarmed by his friend’s sudden disappearance.

"Yes?" The Lieutenant appeared further up the passage, stepping into the pool of illumination thrown by an auxiliary light.

"Wait for us, Lieutenant," Tigh requested. "And be careful. We can’t be certain as to what happened down here yet."

* * *

At the end, the passage widened out into a hallway dominated by three massive airlock doors, the same type of door that led into the passenger pods elsewhere in the ship. They had been open, caught back against the bulkheads to allow easy access. Here the one immediately opposite the corridor was fastened shut, an indicator panel clearly showing that there was nothing but vacuum on the other side of it. The one on the right was similarly sealed, but the other one was slightly ajar. And it was from there that the distinctly chemical taint was drifting.

"He opened the door," Starbuck concluded, eyeing the shadowed hatchway with distaste. "It must have hit him all at once. He probably didn’t have a chance."

A loud crack from the pod beyond the partly-open doorway caught their attention. It was followed by more of the muffled thumps, but this time the sound was clearer. "It’s barrels!" Komma exclaimed, with some relief. "Banging together. Just storage barrels."

"Storing what?" Tigh questioned. "And why are they moving?"

"The air isn’t too bad now," Apollo remarked, testing the weight of the door. "And I think this will open. Do you want to take a look, Colonel?"

"Yes." The GALACTICA’s Executive Officer didn’t want to admit it, but he was curious. After all, no-one had been down here since the destruction of the Colonies ... "Open it up, Apollo. Let’s see what this pod was carrying."

* * *

Beyond the doorway the cargo pod was dim, dark and shadowed. Ahead of them a walkway stretched, a thousand metrons or more, its length distorted by the low lighting, its other end obscured by shadowed distance. It hung suspended over the compartmented cargo bay, the only thing illuminated by the red emergency lighting which reduced the structure of the overhead lifting mechanism to nothing but a menacing shadow above them.

The air was thick with the acrid scent of chemicals, an unpleasant, biting taste in the back of the throat that left a bitter aftertaste. And from the depths of the darkened hold, thin wreaths of black smoke were coming, drifting over the edge of the walkway rail to hang ominously in the still air.

"There’s something down there burning," Tigh murmured doubtfully, moving to the edge of the walkway and peering down into the shadows. He swept his gaze further along the structure, and frowned.

The walkway was supported by a number of scaffolded towers, dotted along the length of the pod at regular intervals. Beneath it, the bays were divided by thin intersecting walls, marking off regular containing compartments. They appeared to be practically empty, or at least those immediately nearest the entrance did. The depths of the compartment immediately beneath them were filled with indiscernible shapes and shadows. The air was very still, and yet - electric, filled with a brooding sense of tension.

"Excuse me for saying this, sir ..." Komma had moved down the walkway to stare down at the first dividing wall, "... but I don’t like this at all."

In the next compartment, more dim shapes loomed out of the darkness below - vaguely white containers, packages, bales, rolls, all stacked higgledy-piggledy, a cacophony of contents that made no sense.

And then - somewhere in the first compartment, something cracked, a dull thump as of something falling sideways, the sound of movement in the darkness.

"The cases ..." Apollo joined Tigh at the edge, leaning over to stare into the darkness. "They’re breaking open." He winced as a wave of acrid fumes drifted over his face. "Something’s going on down there - and it’s not ghosts."

"I wonder how long this stuff’s been packed down there." Starbuck had joined Komma and was peering into the gloom, trying to make some sense of it. "If that’s just a stockpile of chemicals, it may not be too safe."

"I quite agree, Lieutenant," Tigh nodded thoughtfully. "I suspect it is not at all safe. Some of these containers may have been stowed sectars before the destruction of the Colonies. They’ve been sitting here un-inspected, jostled by Cylon attack and subject to the normal stresses of stellar carriage. Lords know what lethal combination may be brewing down there. I suggest we recommend to the Captain that he simply jettison this pod as quickly as it can be safely done."

He stepped back to stare speculatively at the shadow of the OLM above him. "Further, gentlemen," he continued decisively, "I suggest we vacate this pod ourselves. We already know some of these fumes can be lethal."

It was at that moment that it happened.

Afterwards, none of them could swear to the precise sequence of events that followed: whether the explosion that rocked the pod beneath them came first, or if the gout of flame that billowed from the depths to wrap the walkway in a sudden flash of heat was before or after the agony of the blast. The walkway supports creaked ominously around them, but they would never know if acids had eaten away at their bases or if it was that sudden release of chemical power that twisted the metal beyond recognition, tore and tortured the structure with relentless force. No-one could say. But what happened was in no doubt.

For the reaction below finally reached critical point, and with a horrifying thunder the world about them exploded into a moment of heat and pain and utter confusion ...

* * *

When Starbuck crawled back to consciousness an indeterminable time later, it was to a strange world of hot, bitter air and a disconcerting tingling sensation, as though someone has scrubbed his skin with sandpaper. He vaguely remembered the concussion lifting him off his feet, throwing him to the metal and rolling him over and over ... and then nothing; just darkness. He lay against the steel, and it was cold, oddly comforting in its solidness. Then realisation dragged him up into full awareness. Something ... what had happened?

"Apollo?" he murmured tentatively. There was no reply.

Groggily he dragged himself onto his hands and knees. The world swam in front of him, an echo of lurid red and darkness, and somewhere, somewhere far below him, the flicker of coloured flame.

With a start, he realised that he was perched on the edge of the walkway, the railing twisted and buckled away from him so that there was nothing between him and the drop beneath.

"Frak!" he swore, scrabbling backwards as fast as he could. His body protested at the sudden demand, joints aching, lungs tightening, and dizziness claiming him with violent speed.

"Hey!" he called into the general air, rolling onto his launches and watching the world go round. The sound echoed dully and died without an answer.

When his immediate environment had stopped spinning, he focused on the view in front of him. He was looking at the far end of the pod, where there was nothing but the red greyness of the shadows and the emergency light. But between him and that distant point, the walkway no longer stretched with rigid efficiency. Instead, it sagged dangerously, canted to one side where supporting towers had given way completely. To one side of him the railing was twisted and torn from its mountings. On the other ... He stared at the crumpled shape that lay on the metal for a long micron before it resolved itself into the portly form of Corporal Komma lying twisted into a heap.

"Komma?" He crawled over to the still figure, not willing to trust himself to his feet, not liking the way the walkway creaked beneath his weight. The man was still unconscious, though the sound of his ragged breathing reassured the warrior who, for a micron, had thought the worst.

Certain now of one, Starbuck turned to find his other companions and froze in horror at the sight that met his eyes.

There should have been the end wall of the pod, pierced by the access tunnel and the airlock. There should have been the overhead lifting mechanism, suspended above the walkway, with Apollo by its control box and Tigh underneath its bulk. Instead there as only a jangled mass of metal girders, skewed onto the walkway’s surface, twisted and torn from the upper mountings, the tunnel and the door totally obscured, the central mass of the lifting gear spilled towards the floor of the bay and supported crazily by the buckled railing at the walkway edge.

"No!" Starbuck abandoned Komma to throw himself at the savage twist of metal. Under its edge he found Apollo, pinned beneath a twist of scaffolding, protected from being entirely crushed by the crumpled control pillar which, by some miracle, had held the weight of the steel and cushioned his head and torso.

Starbuck pulled uselessly at the tangled mass. It was firmly wedged, and he quickly realised he was doing nothing but wasting his strength. Apollo was unconscious, his face pale and livid in the dim lighting. Breathing heavily, Starbuck leaned on the twisted frame and wondered what to do. A groan from within the mass of steel startled him.

"Colonel?" he realised with shock. The man had been right under the OLM when it fell. He could see no sign of ... Wait - behind the solid tangle of the lifting gear, which must have fallen sideways as well as down, he could just see a dim shape. Tigh must have thrown himself backwards, for he was lying against the corner of the access tunnel, securely held by the interlacing of the fallen metal.

"Colonel!" Starbuck’s call was a little desperate. There was no way he could reach the trapped man, not even to assess how badly he was hurt, and he needed to know.

"Starbuck?" Tigh’s voice was the most welcome thing the warrior had ever heard. "Are you all right, Lieutenant?"

"I’m fine," Starbuck breathed. "Just fine."

Starbuck might have been fine - the Colonel certainly wasn’t. He listened to the Lieutenant’s hasty sketch of their situation with the slow, heavy breath of a man who seeks to cope with pain. The warrior hesitated to ask the man’s condition; he couldn’t reach him immediately, whatever he did, and somehow he didn’t really want to know how bad the emergency was. He asked, though. He had to, and the non-committal reply the Colonel gave him only confirmed the worst. There was no time to go for help - the two trapped men had to be freed as soon as possible, and the crackle of fire from the pod below only served to emphasise the point.

"Don’t give up on us yet, buddy," a cracked voice murmured from beside him. "We’ve been in worse positions."

"We have?" Starbuck couldn’t hide the relief in his voice; Apollo conscious and capable of trying to sound reassuring - that was one point to their team. Trouble was, the other side was holding match point. One mistake and the game was lost for good.

"You know, Apollo ..." Starbuck was reaching for breath himself in the tainted atmosphere. "I can cope with Cylons and all the other bad guys outnumbering us. I just pull out my laser and reduce the odds. But that won’t do much good here."

"It might." Apollo’s face was beaded with sweat, and his friend had to crouch beside him to catch the words clearly. "If you could cut us free we might make it out the other end of this funhouse."

Starbuck turned to stare down the length of the pod at the far end of the walkway. It looked forever, across the sideways twist of the sagging structure and through the semidarkness beyond. He couldn’t see the hatch, although he knew it had to be there. All he could register in the vivid glare of fire and emergency lighting was Komma’s face, etched over with the horror of the collapsed OLM as he realised what it meant.

"Komma!" Starbuck was sharper than he’d intended. "Get your butt over here."

The Corporal crawled the cautious distance to Apollo’s side, one eye on the twisted railing as he came. He was breathing heavily by the time he arrived, and he flashed a nervous grin at the Captain, who found a reassuring smile from somewhere.

"What can I do, Lieutenant?" Komma asked, wincing as yet another muffled explosion echoed in the bay beneath them.

Starbuck was asking himself the same question. He couldn’t use his laser to cut away the wreckage - the impact setting was too wide, and he would risk sending the whole mass, trapped men and all, into the chemical Hades below. What he needed was a fine cutting tool, something he could control and use to separate the metal piece by piece. The laser could be adjusted, but he had no tools.

"I don’t know," he admitted, gasping as a reek of pungent smoke drifted over them. "Unless you can produce a maintenance kit from thin air. My laser needs some fine-tuning." He reached a hand to his trapped friend’s free arm as he said it, suddenly realising that without that adjustment, any talk of rescue was just so much felgercarb. Apollo’s hand tightened reflexively on his own. He knew it too.

"A - a took kit?" Komma queries, and for some strange reason quirked a half-grin into his expression. "That all?"

"All ..." Starbuck groaned, cutting it short as the Corporal unclipped a small pouch from his belt and thrust it at him. Wordlessly the Lieutenant took it, flipping back the cloth cover to reveal a selection of extremely delicate probes and screwdrivers, an electrowelder, a miniature laser knife, and several other implements which he didn’t immediately recognise.

Under the man’s astonished gaze Komma squirmed embarrassedly. "I never know when I might need a screwdriver ..." he explained doubtfully, perhaps trying to excuse the fact that he was carrying non-regulation kit. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Starbuck made a mental note to ensure it became regulation. As soon as they got out of the mess they were in.

"Will it do?" Apollo asked, releasing his friend’s hand to pull at his arm, the better to see what he had.

"You bet," Starbuck announced, flashing Komma a broad grin. "I’ll have you out real soon, buddy. Colonel ..."

"Yes, Lieutenant?" Tigh’s voice was faint but firm. He was still on the team.

"Komma and I are going to try to get rid of some of the mass of the OLM. I’m going to adjust my laser to a fine cutting beam, and then we’ll try and free Apollo. Once we’ve got him out we can throw the lifting cradle over the rail and reach you from underneath the main structure."

"I understand," the Colonel acknowledged after a micron. "But you will have to hurry. The Hades-brew in this pod isn’t going to wait forever. It might kill us just from the fumes it’s putting into the atmosphere, but it’s more likely to reach some kind of critical reaction. These minor explosions are just a part of it." He paused, fighting for a hold on his pain. "Starbuck," he went on, his voice disjointed but his tone firm, "if the fumes or the fire get any worse, then you and Komma are to get out as fast as you can. Forget me. Forget Apollo, if you have to. But save yourselves. That’s an order. Do you hear me, Starbuck?"

"Sorry, Colonel," Starbuck called back, already inside his laser’s complex innards, "but I didn’t catch that last remark. I can’t hear so well - must have been the explosion."

Holding the tiny torch that was the working warrior’s only source of decent light, Komma grimaced at Apollo. They’d both heard Tigh clearly enough, but that was one order Starbuck wouldn’t hesitate to disobey.

"It’s okay, Komma," Apollo murmured. "We’ll make it. You’ll see."


	2. Chapter 2

It took only a few centons for Starbuck to complete the delicate adjustments that were needed. He thrust the altered laser into Komma’s hands and stepped back from the wreckage to assess the best place to begin work. It didn’t look too easy. The tangle of metal was precariously balanced, and to remove too much at once could well topple the whole structure. He paused to wipe an arm across his forehead. It was getting hot, and it was hard to breathe in the fume-laden air. Tigh was right. Time was critical, and he was wasting too much of it staring at a wreckage of metal that refused to focus properly.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" Komma asked, seeing him sway on his feet.

"Yeah," Starbuck reassured him. "Say - are those lifting chains still free in their pulleys?"

Komma twisted around to pull tentatively at the fine chains that had pooled over Apollo’s side. They ran freely for a while and then jammed, leaving him with an armful of lightweight linkage securely fastened at one end.

"Great." Starbuck was pleased. "We’ll need those, I think. How are you doing, buddy?"

Apollo didn’t answer for a micron. The weight of steel on his hip and leg was an oppressive pain that wouldn’t go away. He’d lightly said that all they needed was to free him, but he knew he would need a lot more help than that to reach the other end of the pod.

"Just get on with it, will you, Starbuck?" he requested, unable to hide the pain in his voice. "We haven’t got all day!"

"Right." Starbuck stepped briskly forward, feeling the walkway sag beneath his weight. A few centons and they’d all be out of this crazy situation. All he had to do was ...

A giant hand slammed the cargo pod sideways without warning, sending a rumble of sound the length of the interior as loosely-packed cargo shifted and split. The walkway juddered violently, tilting even further towards its missing supports, and Starbuck, with one foot raised in the middle of his stride, slipped.

The momentum of his step carried him sideways, over the waiting edge, and down. He flailed wildly, desperately, trying to catch the twisted rail, to prevent the inevitable, to save himself. Komma, realising his peril, lunged after him, one hand securely wrapped in the anchored chains, reaching for the vaguest hope, the barest touch.

Too late.

With a cry, Starbuck fell down into the dark and the flame, into the smoke-veiled depths of the compartment below. He tumbled forever, it seemed, over and over, until, with an ominous accompaniment of sound, he landed somewhere among the litter of cargo and chemicals; somewhere in the arms of Hades.

"Lieutenant!!" Komma’s cry echoed with the anguish of despair as he watched the slender thread of hope that Starbuck had woven within him twist and tumble into the waiting darkness below. "STARBUCK!!!"

It was no good. He was gone, and the only sound that drifted up to the precarious walkway was the muted roar of chemical flames.

Komma lay at the metalled edge, gasping for breath he couldn’t find. He didn’t know what to do. One moment everything was going so well, everything was going to be all right. And now Starbuck was gone.

The pod lurched again, another violent, angry move that shifted the hanging weight of the OLM and brought a stifled gasp of agony from Apollo. Another rumble of reactive sound, and a flare of coloured flame within the darkness. Somewhere in the hidden depths below him the fallen warrior would be lying, injured, maybe even dead.

Something inside the portly Corporal finally snapped. He had been confused, hurt, afraid, even despairing. But now, with the sudden self-revelation that he alone could make the choice that would decide the future, with that looming awareness, he knew where event was taking him. Starbuck had known what to do: how to rescue their trapped companions, how to act, how to react. And Starbuck was somewhere in the darkness. Waiting. Relying on a quiet, unassuming computertech to save all of them.

Without any hesitation, his mind peculiarly clear, Komma lifted the weight of chain from his arm and dropped its silver length over the edge of the walkway.

"Komma?" Apollo’s voice was anxious. He could see the man lying at the walkway’s edge only by twisting himself painfully to one side. He’d heard Starbuck fall, knew what that despairing cry had meant; one inner pain to add to the searing ache in his legs, his side. Always he’d been able to act, to do something to cauterise the wound left behind by a lost comrade, but now he was truly helpless, trapped by circumstances and forced to do nothing but watch as his friend was taken from him.

"Hang on to that laser, Captain." The Corporal’s voice was strangely calm. "We’ll need it later."

"What ...?" Apollo nearly screamed his frustration. He couldn’t see what the man was doing, couldn’t reach out, couldn’t move ... A wrench, and a flare of pain, and he was lying on his side, watching in sheer disbelief as his last remaining hope, the one man left free, calmly swung himself over the edge of the precarious walkway and disappeared into the waiting inferno.

"KOMMA!" This time he did scream, not from fear or pain, but from his inner tension. Komma was doing what he would have done - he was going after Starbuck, and he’d done it without hesitation, almost without thought. The terror in the Captain’s gut was not for himself, but for a man he had scarcely noticed - a man who had just proved himself to be a warrior indeed.

"Apollo?" Tigh called from the depths of the wreckage. They were alone now, the two of them, trapped together, waiting on the return of their only hope.

"It’s okay, Colonel." Apollo didn’t know why he was so sure. "Starbuck fell with that last explosion. But Komma’s gone after him - they’ll be back soon."

* * *

It was simple, really. Komma’s mind considered the situation as he swung over the edge, concentrating on the circumstances so as to push the awareness of the drop beneath his feet to the back of his mind. He couldn’t help Apollo without some kind of assistance; he certainly couldn’t help the Colonel, trapped even deeper in the wreckage - but he could help Starbuck. And Starbuck had known what to do. All he had to do to rescue him was to climb down these slender chains, into the darkness and the roar of the waiting fire, down into the thickening fumes, find an injured man (he wouldn’t consider the possibility of his not surviving that fall. Starbuck had survived - he always survived!), and then somehow get the two of them back up those same chains and onto the precarious walkway. Nothing to it.

Nothing, that was, but the sheer terror that had locked his hands to the chains and tightened inside him so that for a micron he could do nothing but hang above that numbing drop and wonder what he had been thinking of in that moment of decision. It wasn’t the height; it wasn’t even the beat of heat on his legs, wafting up from the depths and mingling with the choking fumes that surrounded him. It was the audacity of his even considering he could be a hero. He wanted to be back on the GALACTICA, listening to the sound of a Cylon attack on the hull and knowing that there were warriors out there doing their best to protect him and the ship. He wanted to be occupied with incoming reports and the transfer of data files, so that the terror of the attack was pushed from his mind by the need to be working. He wanted to be somewhere, anywhere but hanging over an inferno with the knowledge that the lives of three other men depended on his actions. It was the awful awareness of how important he had suddenly become that glued his hands to the chain beneath them. He wasn’t a coward - he could be as brave as the next man while at his post, doing his duty without complaint while others cracked under the strain of constant battle and the pressure his section were continually under at such times. He knew that. But he was a computertech, for Hades’ sake, one small cog in a huge machine, just an operator with a little bit of skill in handling an operating system and the user interfaces. He could quote the system commands to retrieve archive files in his sleep, if need be - but he wasn’t a warrior the way Viper pilots were, not a man used to dealing with death without a micron’s hesitation. So why was he suspended over a pit of fire with no air in his lungs and the sweat burning into his eyes?

Because he had to, that was why. Nothing else was important. Not the thought of where he was, or where he would like to be. Not the potential dangers his over-vivid imagination was suggesting to him. Just the simple requirement that he get on with the job. The way he always got on with the job - step by step, everything in its place, everything worked out one thing at a time. He’d passed into the computer section straight from the recruiting office with the highest aptitude result that the officer had remembered seeing. They had told him not to worry that others could complete tasks in less time than his careful pace - he always did things thoroughly, and the work he produced never required checking. He was good at his job, and if it wasn’t for the war he would probably have been able to progress slowly from operator to systems operator to programmer, and maybe even end up in a development team. He would have liked that. He was good with his hands, and had taken over some of the hardware maintenance in his section after one of the technicians had been killed on Carillon. But the war and the destruction of the Colonies had got in the way. Men couldn’t be spared to pursue private study, and even if they could there was probably no-one left with time to teach them. He’d probably spend the rest of his life as a Corporal, handling input and retrieval of data, carrying out system dumps and dreaming of what might have been.

That was if he had much of his life left, of course. He was creeping down the chain with studied determination now, the thoughts in his head serving to distract him from the flare of heat and the thickening of the fumes. It was strange, too, how the acceptance of the necessity of the job had overwhelmed all the terror. It was still there - he could find it at the back of his mind, ready to spring out with paralysing speed if he let it - but there was no time now to be afraid. He was doing the job he had to do, and the Komma that watched the leap of flames grow ever closer and imagined what their touch could do to him was a long way away from the man who climbed down the length of chain with quiet acceptance of the situation. He could be afraid later. Or not at all. He was beginning to realise that half of the fear was a direct result of being helpless. When danger threatened that you could do nothing about - that was terrifying. But the kind of danger he was in now - well, he was doing something about it! And once you realised that being afraid simply got in the way of getting the thing done - if you stopped letting your imagination run away with you and just did what you had to do ...

A sudden sheet of flame roared past him with an angry sound. The heat wrapped around him with choking intensity, driving the last gasp of air from his lungs, and his sweaty grip on the chain, which had slowly been becoming hotter the longer it hung over the inferno, slipped. He fell maybe five or six metrons before he was able to regain a hold, the metal tearing through his hands with painful speed. He hung for a moment, unable to breathe, unable to move, cursing himself for being smug, just because he had found that he was braver than he had thought.

He started down again, just as cautiously, trying to ignore the fact that the metal had either become painfully hot or he had done more damage to his hands in that long slide than was good for them. There was no longer even time to think; a few microns after his partial fall, his feet hit something hard, off to one side, and he was in among the packages, dropping onto soft bundles that he couldn’t see properly. His eyes were streaming and his throat burned. There seemed to be no oxygen down there, and his skin tingled with the impact of chemical vapours.

From the bottom it was obvious that the fire was burning in scattered patches, action and reaction depending on the way the various compounds had been packed. Another explosion rocked the pod, the violence of it throwing him off his feet. He only remained upright because of his grip on the chain, and the force of the reaction toppled the bundles he had been standing on sideways. The top one split, sending an avalanche of yellow crystals down the side of the pile and into a cracked ceramic container at its feet. Almost immediately a cloud of smoke began to pour from it. Komma backed away as quickly as he could, wrapping the end of the chain around his forearm so as to keep it within him, using its secured length as a support as he clambered over the chaos of packing.

He slipped once, ending knee-deep in some viscous fluid that was somehow still cold, his left hand buried in another sack of crystals which spilled into the pool, making it bubble ominously.

"Frak!"

He was more annoyed than afraid now. He couldn’t see, the light from the fires obscured by streaming eyes that had to be forced open. And the surface underfoot refused to support him properly, slipping away from his weight in unpredictable directions. He stumbled over something else, swearing as he did so, to put his hand on something soft, something that groaned a very human groan.

"Starbuck?" Komma nearly lost his grip on the chain trying to find a foothold. That would have been fatal for both of them, and he fought for balance, ending on his knees by the warrior’s side.

A pool of blue flame burned behind them, throwing a lurid light on the still figure sprawled on a pile of sacking. He had hit quite hard, the impact absorbed by the contents of the boxes beneath, crushing the containers and scattering glass and fluids into the general mayhem, but the man himself had been cushioned by the collapse. He lifted an unwilling head at Komma’s touch, resigned to his death by circumstance, and took a few microns to focus on his rescuer.

"Komma?" he groaned through vapour-burned lips, wondering why he was still alive and pausing to consider, while waiting for the reply, that maybe he wasn’t still alive. Maybe this was Hades and he had been condemned to lie here forever with visions of rescue fading in and out as an agonising torture.

"Lieutenant?" Komma’s voice was real enough, a whispered question through reluctant lips. "Are you hurt bad?"

Afterwards, Starbuck swore that he had known all along that Komma would come after him. Afterwards he said all sorts of things that made the man concerned squirm with embarrassment whenever he heard them. But for now all he could do was stare in total astonishment at the unexpected sight of his rescuer.

"What in Hades do you think you’re doing, you son of a she-daggit?!" He found his voice despite a burning throat and an unaccountable weight in his chest. "Are you crazy or something?"

"Something, I hope." Komma helped the man scramble to his knees, noting the wince of pain that accompanied Starbuck’s attempt to use his right arm as much by instinct as by anything else. The air was so thick with smoke and fumes that not even the louring light of chemical fires penetrated very far.

"I think my shoulder is broken." Starbuck’s whisper was made through clenched teeth. "There’s no way I can climb out of here."

Komma frowned up at the length of waiting chain. Now he had found the missing warrior, he wasn’t quite sure what to do next. One step at a time, he reminded himself. First thing was to get out of these fumes before one or both of them collapsed.

"That’s okay, Lieutenant," he announced. "Just so long as you can hang on to me. I’ll get you back up there."

"Sure," Starbuck sighed, leaning his dizzy weight on his companion’s shoulder. "You’re just gonna climb all that way with my weight as well as your own? Forget it, Corporal. Tie the chain on me and haul me up after you. I might last long enough."

Komma shook his head, reluctant to speak in the poisonous atmosphere. He knew what he was doing. If he left Starbuck in these fumes much longer he would be hauling up a corpse - and that would be no good to any of them.

"Just hang on," he ordered, taking a firmer grasp of the chain and slipping his other arm around the Lieutenant so that they were face to face. Starbuck sighed again, and wrapped his good arm over Komma’s shoulder, getting as firm a grip as he could manage.

"Okay," he muttered. "But if you start to slip, I’m letting go."

* * *

Centimetron by painful centimetron, Komma started the ascent, lifting them both on hands now so numb as to be beyond pain. The weight on his shoulder threw his balance, and they climbed slowly, stopping often for him to try and regain his breath in an atmosphere that denied them both oxygen.

"I don’t believe this," Starbuck muttered as they slowly rose above the level of the flame. He could feel every muscle in Komma’s shoulders strain with the effort, but they were rising. After a while it became easier to breathe.

"How are you doing, Lieutenant?" Komma enquired as he paused yet again.

"Just fine." Starbuck’s answer was heavy with astonishment. "How about you?"

Komma found a short laugh, then regretted it as he covered the fit of coughing that followed it. "No problem," he gasped. "You don’t weigh as much as I do."

"What in Hades has that got to do with it?"

The Corporal started to climb again, moving upwards with studied determination.

"Everything," he answered, on his next pause. "See, I was born on Atalan. Third generation, they tell me."

"Atalan?" The reference gave Starbuck something else to think about, other than the swinging drop beneath them and the pain that seemed to have swallowed him up. "Wasn’t that a mining colony?"

"Yah." Komma was finding it harder to catch his breath. "At least, it was until the Cylons destroyed it."

"I got it!" Starbuck finally made the connection. "Atalan was a high gravity world, right?"

"Right." Komma wasn’t quite sure why they were having this conversation, but it seemed to make the agonising climb easier somehow. "A full gee above Caprican norm. The first yahrens of my life were spent developing muscles designed to carry twice my weight. I’ve been stronger than I looked ever since."

"Komma," the Lieutenant concluded thoughtfully, "you’re one dark equine, and no mistake. What made you join the Service?"

"Circumstance." The tech grimaced into the dark. "I was no more than a few centars old when the first Cylon raid struck Atalan. I lost everything - including my name. Spent the next ten yahrens living underground under constant attack. By the time I was evacuated to Taura I found I didn’t like the open air. So I joined up as soon as I was old enough. I don’t feel quite so vulnerable aboard a Battlestar."

Starbuck started to laugh. "Vulnerable, eh? That’s a good one, if ever I’ve heard it. And what do you mean - you lost your name? Hades, I was orphaned in the raid on Umbra. Still knew what my name was."

"You," Komma told him, with a hint of old bitterness, "were presumably old enough to have been given one. They dug me out of the wreckage of the Life Center - I could have been the son of one of fifteen different families."

Starbuck didn’t know what to say. He knew what it was like, growing up in an orphanage, with no idea of your parentage and no advantage of family to give you a start in life.

"I’m sorry," he said. It didn’t sound very adequate.

"Don’t be." Komma was regretting being so frank. "It was a long time ago."

They continued to climb in silence, Starbuck cursing himself for his curiosity.

* * *

Apollo was beginning to think that time had ground to a halt. It seemed like yahrens since Komma had disappeared over the edge of the walkway, and his absence had been marked only by the continuing sound of fire and explosions from the darkness below.

"Colonel," he called, needing to hear another human voice. "Do you think we’ve been missed yet?"

There was a long silence before he heard Tigh’s answer. It came as a gasped sentence, words spoken disjointedly, as though their utterer were reluctant to let them go.

"Not yet, Apollo. We finished early, and the GALACTICA won’t be expecting us for a while."

Apollo sank his head to the coolness of the steel beneath him. The Colonel sounded bad - and there was nothing he could do to help him, nothing he could do to help himself, nothing but wait and pray. It was no way for a warrior to die, this painful descent into threatening oblivion, trapped like a snared lepus. A warrior’s death should be quick and clean, a flare of brilliance in a moment of sacrifice. Like Zac, leaving this life in a white-hot micron; like Serina, giving hers for the people whom she loved; like Starbuck. Apollo knew that his moment of hope had been nothing but self-delusion; he would die here, in the dark and the heat, in the bitter fumes of other men’s negligence ... die as his comrade had died, consumed by elemental flame; and know that perhaps, with the bitterest irony of all, his father would never know what had become of him.

"I’m sorry, Boxey," he murmured to the steel. "I’m really sorry."

A sound alerted him - a scraped, metallic sound. The sound of the thick-linked chain ragged over the steel edge of the walkway. Hope flared in him like a drug, like a flame.

"Colonel!" He fought down the impulse to struggle against the bonds that held him. "There’s weight on the chain again. I think they’re coming back!"

He heard Tigh laugh softly behind him. Perhaps he too had resigned himself to death, made his peace with the world and abandoned his hope. Apollo felt strangely ashamed that he should have ever doubted his chances of rescue - as if he had forgotten the defiant message that another Captain had once sent a looming attack force demanding his surrender. ‘I live yet’, the man had answered, holding to his post and buying time for the civilians under his care. That Captain had died in that battle, one man against a hundred Cylon centurions, but his sacrifice had saved thousands. ‘I live yet.’ It was a lesson of history that the tutors at the Academy had drummed into their raw recruits with relentless efficiency. It was the message that had inspired Adama to lead this hopeless fleet on its tireless quest. While life survived there was always a chance. Always.

He watched the shifting chain with a dry mouth, willing whoever climbed it to achieve the impossible. He couldn’t breathe as a hand appeared at the walkway’s edge. His heart was in his throat as that groping hand scrabbled for a firm grip on the tilted edge; and then Starbuck rolled over it to lie gasping on the angled walkway, his face a stark-etched profile in the dimness of the emergency lighting.

"Oh, boy!" the Lieutenant announced, his voice cracked and dry. "Do I need a drink!"

"Starbuck!" Apollo couldn’t keep the relief from his voice. The man concerned rolled onto his side and grinned at his friend.

"How you doing, buddy?" he asked.

Apollo found his eyes were wet; he wasn’t sure if it was because of the contaminated atmosphere or simply because he’d thought never to see his friend again. Whatever the reason, he had a lump in his throat and he fought it down with difficulty.

"‘I live yet’," he quoted softly. Starbuck widened his grin.

* * *

Take two tired, injured men, one laser pistol and an impossible situation. Add a deadline for which time is rapidly running out, and ask for miracles. You’ll get them. One way or another.

It took ten centons to cut Apollo free; ten centons in which ever micron was an aeon of agony. It wasn’t just the shift of weight on the dark-haired warrior’s side and hip, which found him biting back screams. Nor was it the way that Starbuck’s vision kept shifting in and out of focus so that he had to stop and fight the dizziness that threatened to engulf him. Mostly it was the sheer effort that it required to keep going, micron after micron.

Komma did most of the heavy work, ignoring screaming muscles and the way his skin seemed to be on fire from his feet up. He was past pain by now. He wouldn’t even have noticed if Starbuck’s aim had slipped and taken his hands along with the metal. Piece by piece they tore their way into the tangled wreckage of the OLM, throwing each discarded item to the hungry flames below - flames that roared ever higher beneath them.

Eventually, with a protesting scrape of steel against steel, the main supporting girder lifted, twisted, and fell away, spilling Apollo into Starbuck’s knees.

The Lieutenant half-collapsed over him, fighting a rising nausea and the urge to give in right there. It would be so easy, just to close his eyes and let it happen ...

"Starbuck!" Apollo’s voice was sharp. "Stand to! Red Alert!"

The warrior snapped back to attention with the automatic response of the fighting man, then realised where hew as and sighed.

"It’s okay, buddy." His voice was blurred. "I’ll make it."

Apollo wasn’t so sure. He had watched his friend’s strength fade, although not his strength of purpose; but the man had not thought beyond the point they had now reached. One more of them was free - but they were a long way from being safe.

"Starbuck," he said gently, realising that the man was past rational decision, "why don’t you just start down the walkway with the end of the chain and secure it when you get there?"

"Huh?"

"Look," his Captain continued, having given the matter some thought whilst waiting to be rescued, "if you can get the chain across, then I can pull myself after you using it. It’s my legs that hurt, not my arms."

Starbuck thought about it. "The Colonel ...?" he questioned.

Apollo put a reassuring hand to his friend’s good shoulder. "Komma will bring him," he murmured. "He’s getting him now."

* * *

A metron away, crawling under the remaining bulk of the wreckage, Corporal Komma was wondering if he could ask to be transferred to something less dangerous. One of the peripheral gunships, perhaps, or maybe even pilot warrior training. At least if the Cylons shot at you it was all over in a micron or two. None of this sensation of sitting on top of a ticking time bomb, or being forced to your limits - and beyond them.

He found Colonel Tigh pinned to the bulkhead by the fractured metal, a steel pin rammed into the man’s shoulder and another through his side. The surface of the textured plate beneath him was sticky; he had lost a lot of blood.

"Komma?" It was the faintest of sounds, a breath of a whisper, but it sounded like thunder to the Corporal’s ears. The Colonel was still alive and conscious. All he had to do now was get him out.

"Cut the pins." Tigh knew it was no good protesting that he should be left. "And cut them as close to me as you can. The heat will cauterise the wounds."

A centar before (was it only so long that they had endured this nightmare?) Komma would have refused to do such a thing. He would have taken time to find some other way, to avoid inflicting further pain. But there was no time. It was only sheer good fortune that had so far prevented the raging inferno below them from spreading to the other compartments in the pod, and when it did, as it inevitably would, there would be nowhere to escape to. The whole cargo unit would go up like a Cylon mine.

He cut the pins. Tigh didn’t scream as the white heat from the tightened beam flared down the metal into him. He threw back his head once - and lay still, sensation blessedly denied him by oblivion. Komma wished he could join him, but he hadn’t come this far just to give up on the final triad ball.

"I wonder if I can get put on report for this," he muttered to no-one in particular as he manhandled the Colonel into the narrow gap between wreckage and walkway. "I wonder if I’ll live to care," he added, emerging into a gathering of acrid smoke. Apollo greeted him with an acknowledging hand to the arm, trying to keep the thickening fumes out of his lungs.

"How’s the Colonel?" he risked, catching sight of Tigh’s drawn face cradled against the comptech’s shoulder. Komma would have grimaced at the question, but his face hurt.

"He lives yet," he muttered. "Where’s the Lieutenant?"

"Over there." Apollo indicated the knuckle-whitening sag of the walkway ahead. Along its tilted length, Starbuck was crawling, drawing himself along on one hand with studied determination.

* * *

If there is one thing that learning to fly a Viper does for you, it teaches you how to overcome a sense of vertigo. Even so, it wasn’t easy for Apollo to haul himself across the waiting walkway with the surface at an angle of thirty degrees and the railing at the lower edge twisted and torn away. Every movement set his injured hip and legs afire with pain, and the distance seemed to go on forever. He knew that Komma was behind him - once away from the roar of the fire, the sound of the man’s laboured breath was a constant reminder of his presence - and he knew that to stop would probably mean he would be unable to start again. But in the whole of his life, the crossing of that walkway was probably the hardest thing he’d ever had to do.

"Come on, buddy." Starbuck’s voice was a distant encouragement. "You can do it. It was your idea, remember?"

The far hatchway was a lifetime away. Several lifetimes by the time he reached it. Reach it he did, with Starbuck’s good arm hauling him into the waiting airlock and out again, into the corridor. He rolled over and over, unable to stop his momentum until he ran into the door on the far side of the junction. There he could only lie and watch as his wingman lifted the unconscious Colonel over the entrance-way, watch as the timebomb ticked down to its last tick and released a gout of flame that ate the inside of the pod with ravaging speed. The connecting wall finally breached, the chemical reaction spilled into the remaining storage compartments, flaring into renewed fury.

"Dump it!" Apollo screamed, realising that the whole thing could ignite at any micron. Somehow Komma scrambled through the airlock, fire at his feet, and then the door whooshed shut behind him as Starbuck half-dived, half-fell at the control panel.

"Dump it," Apollo advised again. "If it goes, it’ll tear this junction apart!"

* * *

Lieutenant Boomer was prepared for practically anything as he fisted open the massive cargo door with its crudely-painted spirit Cross. After all, he’d just seen one of the cargo pods from this level twist away from its anchor points and tear itself apart in space, in spasms of internal fire. Ever since Captain Pineus had reported his state of emergency - explosive detonation somewhere on his ship, potentially an attack of some kind - the crew had run a gamut of rumours that went from major technical failure, through an all-out Cylon invasion, to the vengeance of some supposed ghosts that nobody mentioned but everyone believed in. The problem was that this was also the last reported position of Colonel Tigh and his party; and whilst Boomer was well aware that Starbuck had a habit of finding trouble, he was desperately hoping that this time he had managed to avoid it.

The warrior peered into the waiting corridor cautiously, not knowing what to expect. Certainly not what he saw. In one hurried movement he holstered his laser pistol and ran along the impossible curve with barely a moment’s thought.

Along the twist of the passageway Corporal Komma was staggering, one hand on the wall for support, his touch leaving bloodied handprints on the white surface. His uniform was stained and torn, his face smudged and contorted with effort and pain. Boomer reached him in time to catch him; the computech was breathing in long, painful gasps, and his strength had finally given way.

"My Lord, Komma! What in Hades happened to you?"

The man didn’t answer immediately. He was gasping, fighting through the haze that threatened to swallow him, and only the urgency of his message kept him from unconsciousness. The Lieutenant carefully leaned him back against the wall, his own face written with concern.

"Help ..." cracked lips managed at last. "The Colonel - they need help."

"You need help," Boomer muttered. "Jolly! In here! Hang on, Komma - I’ll get you a medtech."

"No time," the injured man gasped, eyes bright and unfocused, his hand groping at his supporter’s arm. "Starbuck ...!"

Boomer face set in grim lines. He didn’t know what had happened, but Komma’s condition didn’t bode well for his companions. He called for Jolly a second time, trying to reassure the man beside him with a comforting grip over the clutching hand, but the contact stung, chemical taint on the darkened skin.

"Lords of Kobol," the warrior swore softly, realising that the stains on Komma’s uniform were acid burns. "JOLLY!"

Flight Sergeant Jolly barrelled through the hatchway, taking a moment to register the sight of the two men halfway up the wall, before reason triumphed and horror overtook his surprise.

"Call for medtechs," Boomer instructed rapidly, supporting his fellow-crewmember as a fit of coughing replaced the rasping breath. Komma was coughing blood; the Lieutenant glared angrily at Jolly’s shocked expression.

"NOW, frak it! Komma - Komma!"

The Corporal focused on his questioner with difficulty. "Lieutenant?" he fought out. The warrior winced inwardly at the need to keep him awake, but there was one question he had to ask.

"Where are they, Komma? Where’s the Colonel?"

"Pod ..." The injured man was shaking with the effort. Boomer’s heart sank to the bottom of his boots, thinking of the cargo pod he had seen destroyed. Perhaps they were too late, after all.

"Pod ..." Komma repeated, then more strongly, "In the second pod. We got out just in time. Help them ..."

"We will." Boomer glanced up at Jolly, who had rejoined them after calling for medical assistance. "Stay with him, Jolly. I’m going on ahead. Send a medteam after me."

"Will do." The burly Sergeant crouched beside the injured man and watched as the dark-skinned warrior raced into the dim-lit cargo level. He hoped he would be in time.

* * *

Apollo awoke to a comforting cocoon of warmth, to find his father’s face before him, worry written deeply into the familiar brow.

"Father," he murmured, a weight of distant sleep on him. "I had the strangest dream ..."

"No dream, my son. But it is over now. Rest and relax. You are in good hands."

Comforted by the words, Apollo let himself drift away again, lifted into a place where the world was young and his wife waited for him ...

Doctor Salik found Adama a professional expression of concern. "He needs rest, Commander. Come back tomorrow - you can talk to him then."

Commander Adama sighed. "He will be all right?" he asked.

"Yes." The doctor guided him out of the room, past another support casket where Cassiopeia sat, monitoring Starbuck’s ragged breathing with drawn eyes. "The injured bones have been reset, and the rest is simply a matter of recuperation."

"And the others?" Adama put a hand to Salik’s arm, drawing him to a halt at the door. The doctor looked at the floor thoughtfully.

"The Colonel lost a lot of blood ..." he began, then sighed. "Commander - I will be honest with you. Your son and Colonel Tigh have suffered traumatic injury. I have every hope of their recovery, you understand, but it will take time. As for Starbuck - the total extent of the damage has yet to be determined, but as soon as we finish the tests and neutralise the last of the poisons he has taken into his system, then ..."" He shrugged; a professional shrug. "He’s young. He’ll get over it."

Adama said nothing. He merely stared expectantly at the head of Life Center with patient eyes. Salik looked away.

"Komma," he considered slowly, "is another matter." He examined his hands as though he could find all his answers in them, but they revealed nothing new. "He went through much the same contamination as Starbuck did. Except - Adama, I don’t know what he walked through, but we had to cut the boots off him, and a lot of leg muscle went with them. And his hands - there’s sectons of regeneration work there! He’ll recover - eventually; but it’s going to be a long climb. I doubt he’ll be fit for full duty for sectars."

Adama frowned, looking back at the lifepod that concealed the sleeping shape of his son. "What do you recommend?"

Salik followed the line of his gaze with a sigh. "A period of recuperation, followed by light duty - or possibly study," he suggested thoughtfully. "He’ll be in and out of here for a while, that’s for certain. He’s going to need something to take his mind off things ..."

Adama looked sharply back at Salik in some surprise. "What are you saying?" he enquired.

The doctor laughed quietly. "Oh, I don’t know for sure, Adama. But I was talking to Tutor Astoroth the other day ... she’s looking for someone to take under her wing."

"Is she now?" The Commander found the thought amusing. "Well, well. So our revered Academician has finally got tired of teaching nothing but children. M’mm. We could do with more computer people of her calibre. I’ll have a word with Tigh when he’s fit enough. It may be possible to arrange something ... Thank you, Salik. Whatever would I do without you?"

"I wouldn’t know, Commander. I wouldn’t know."

* * *

In the quiet depths of space the stately pace of the Colonial Fleet continued without pause as five further cargo pods were jettisoned from the side of the freighter LEVIATION. They spiralled away from the other ships, to be destroyed by the impact of Viper fire. For a while their incandescence put on a spectacular display, but in the end the fleet left their dying sparks far behind.

Apollo watched from the viewport until he could no longer see the vivid flare of their fire. Then he turned and limped away down the passage, back to the Life Center and the game of pyramid he had promised his friend. His friends, he corrected himself with a smile. He’d never take Komma for granted again, that was for sure.

After all - if it were not for him, the belly of LEVIATHAN would have swallowed them all!


End file.
